


You're My Favorite Bird

by burninglikeabridge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:07:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglikeabridge/pseuds/burninglikeabridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John moves to Lockton High School, and it's just as dull as anywhere else. Except for one moody plot twist; Sherlock Holmes. John tries desperately to befriend Sherlock, who has isolated himself, for what he believes to be good reason.<br/>John and Sherlock learn a lot about themselves as they learn about each other. <br/>John really isn't gay, and Sherlock really isn't interested.<br/>Except they're starting to become the exceptions to each other's rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Can't Shake This Little Feeling

Being a new student was the equivalent of hell for John Watson.   
Or at least the equivalent of being doused in gasoline and lit on fire.   
It was possible that he was being a bit dramatic, but it felt righteous when he'd had to pack up his life and move away from his friends and his school.   
Not that he'd had that many friends anyways, but the few decent ones he'd grown close to, he would miss.   
Not that they'd miss him. John was ordinary. He was average in every way, he was plain. He was boring. Nothing special, to anyone, ever.   
He was 16 years old; surely his parents realized what kind of torture this was.   
His parents- ha, John thought. Not much of parents at all, with a military-pushing father and a meek, quiet mother. They didn't do much parenting besides force their beliefs on him, and then uproot his entire life and ship the family off to a new city.   
If John even mentioned anything other than going into the army after high school, he'd get a lecture from his father. About how John would fail the family, dishonor their hopes and aspirations.   
All John wanted to do was be something else. Something different, anything.   
He wanted to mean something more.  
That was stupid, of course. Everyone wanted that. But no one ever really got to be anything more than just a person. John wouldn't be more than that. To anyone.   
Everything in this new town was already beginning to look faded and washed out, and this was his third day here. The first two had been spent angrily unpacking.  
Now it was time to face the ultimate hell; a new high school.   
It felt like a bad dream.   
But it was reality, John realized, his stomach turning as the school came into view.   
His mother gave him a halfhearted goodbye and John slammed the car door.   
He took a shaky breath.   
Lockton High School; even the name made John want to sob.   
This wasn't fair. 

He got his schedule from the office and managed to be only five minutes late to his first hour of the day- literature.   
He walked in, and was greeted by about 25 pairs of judgmental eyes.  
John's lungs decided to stop working, and he stood in the doorway, trying to breathe and looking like an idiot.   
Everyone stared.   
Most stopped after a moment, after assessing him and deciding that he wasn't much to see after all.   
He was just John, after all.   
After a moment, the teacher directed him to a seat in the back of class and went on with the lecture as John made his way to his seat.  
He looked at each student as he walked. It was all as expected: a few jocks, the cheerleaders, the nerdier kids, the average ones. A few girls that John considered relatively pretty.   
He wouldn't bother dating them, or attempting to. Even if, by some miracle of heaven, the pretty blonde girl said yes to John, she'd easily grow bored. John would grow bored, too. John looked as plain as he was.   
He craved danger. Adrenaline. Something special, whereas John himself was not.   
He was nothing special.   
Neither was this class of strangers.   
It was nothing he hadn't seen before, in the five different schools he'd gone to.   
Entirely ordinary-   
Wait.   
No. Oh, no. That was not ordinary.   
That was not supposed to be there.   
John found it hard to breathe as he stared at the student in the very back of class.  
He was separated from the class, not just by the distance of his desk and the empty desks around him, but by an air of isolation that lingered around him.   
It wasn't just that he was outcast by his peers; it seemed that he found himself to be much better than any of them. He put himself above them, he caused the social separation himself.   
His dark head was down, his longish hair hiding some of his pale face as he wrote something down.   
He wore black jeans, beat up old sneakers, a dark button down shirt and a black overcoat over that. John had never seen anyone like him before. Dark, weird. A bit mysterious, maybe.   
It was as if he sensed that John was staring, because he looked up suddenly.   
And oh- John's heart skipped a beat- he was good looking.   
John had never thought about a guy in that way in his life, yet here he was, admiring the sharp pale lines of some stranger's face, the icy blue eyes.   
The guy was... Gorgeous.   
It seemed wrong to not stare.  
The boy turned his lips up just slightly, and smirked at John.   
'Mr... Watson, is it?' The teacher was tapping a foot impatiently. 'Found your seat?' John couldn't form a proper response.   
John, mouth still gaping open, nearly tripping over himself, managed to sit down in his desk. Which was, of course, right in front of Mr. Dark and Mysterious. Great, John thought.   
He looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the boy behind him.   
After a moment, though, John felt the slight shift of someone coming closer to him, and then he felt cool breath against his neck. He shivered, and then the boy spoke.   
'Welcome to hell, Watson.' The voice was a husky, low whisper. John had never heard a voice like that before; low and deep, but rough at the same time.   
He wanted to hear that voice say his name again.   
The boy smelled faintly of smoke, and rain, even though it wasn't raining outside.   
John suddenly felt cold and hot all over at the same time. And very, very uncomfortable with the way that the boy's breath against his skin felt. It felt... Good. John wanted to lean back against him.   
But that was- no, that was ridiculous. He was just curious because the guy was so strange. That's what he told himself as the boy moved away, the warmth of his presence gone.   
'Mr. Holmes?' The teacher asked.  
'Yes?' The boy's voice was sharp, slightly annoyed now. As if he had a list of better things to do than bore himself to death in the back of literature class.   
'Please refrain from intimidating the new student.' The teacher was frowning at the boy behind John.  
John attempted to hide his face in his notebook, suddenly blushing furiously.   
The boy hadn't intimidated him. He had... Confused him, in the very least.   
Holmes, John thought. What a strange name. Fitting, for the strange boy.   
In response to the teacher's request, Holmes chuckled, a low sound that made John's pulse quicken.   
He steadied his breathing, trying not to imagine cold blue eyes staring holes into the back of his skull. 

John heard an incredible amount about Holmes by lunch.   
He didn't even have to ask around; rumors about him were constantly spreading.   
He learned that Holmes had incredible intelligence. He was too smart for his own good.  
He also heard a few rumors that he didn't want to read into too deeply.   
He also learned something that couls potentially be useful; where Holmes usually was during free time.   
In the courtyard, by the fence, smoking cigarette after cigarette.   
John imagined Holmes like that, alone, comfortable in that loneliness. Comfortable in the faniliarity of isolation and smoke.   
It seemed that everyone either avoided Holmes at all costs, or talked about him every time they caught a glimpse of a black coat, or dark hair. 

His name was Sherlock.   
John learned this at lunch. He was sitting alone in the cafeteria, staring down a blank page in his notebook. He found it too hard to focus on anything, besides the utter awkwardness of being the new kid, the emptiness it gave John to know how life goes on no matter where you are.   
A small, glasses-wearing boy approached John's empty table.   
'Taken?' The boy asked, gesturing to a seat. John shook his head, and the boy sat down.  
Even though he was one of the nerdier of the students, John was grateful for his company.   
'I'm John.' He offered a hand, but the boy nervously adjusted his glasses instead.   
'Andrew.' He replied, opening a text book and beginning to read.   
The boy was a bit smaller than John, and paler, with messy brown hair and brown eyes. Right now, his dark eyes were fixed on John. 'You're new.' He said after a moment.   
'Yes.' John said slowly.   
'Then let me tell you something. It might save you, if I still can.' John fought the urge to laugh. This guy had to be joking. John didn't need a warning from anybody.   
John didn't need anybody at all.   
'Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.' Andrew said, looking deadly serious.  
'You've got to be kidding.' John mumbled. He didn't want to hear this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted 'Sherlock' as the mystery boy's first name. Odd name for an odd person. Fitting. He shoved his notebook into his bag and moved to stand. 'Nice meeting you but-'   
'Wait! I'm serious!' Andrew stood up, frantic. 'This is serious.'   
John frowned at him.  
'Oh, cmon. You all bully him relentlessly. The poor guy is just doing his best. Leave him be.' John said. He tried to sound casual, but he felt a strange, defensive streak rising in him and he couldn't help it.   
'But-'   
'I said leave him be.' John's voice was steady this time, certain.   
'Why would you defend him?' Andrew looked shocked. 'Don't you know?'   
'Doesn't bloody matter what I do or don't know.' John was angry now.   
'John, I really think you should-' Andrew trailed off, and he was no longer looking at John. John didn't notice- he went on speaking, oblivious.   
'Sherlock Holmes can't possibly be that bad.'   
Then it occured to John that Andrew was now staring, open mouthed, at something behind John.   
John turned, seeing Sherlock standing there, just a few feet away, his coat collar turned up, his eyes narrow and sharp and just as shockingly blue as John remembered.  
Now he had a name to the face, and oh, what a perfect name. Odd, quirky. Fitting.   
Sherlock looked so out of place in te artificial lighting; his pale skin, the contrast of dark hair and clothes. Those eyes.   
'Oh, but can't he?' Sherlock murmured, his deep voice barely audible. John was certain that Andrew couldn't hear, and then it occured to John that that was Sherlock's intention.   
Sherlock didn't smirk or smile, he simply stared at John, calculating, for a moment and then turned on his heel and walked out the door to the courtyard.


	2. The Storm is Coming In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't stop thinking about the pale, weird guy.  
> And he doesn't want to.

'He's a madman, John.' Andrew was going on. He'd been at it for the past fifteen minutes. He seemed extra anxious from Sherlock's appearance.   
John had mostly tuned him out. He was lost in his thoughts.   
Sherlock Holmes was not what everyone thought. He wasn't awful. He was just lonely, John presumed. Isolation to that degree was also loneliness, right?  
Only psychopaths or sad people isolated themselves. Sherlock was the second kind.   
John hoped so, at least.   
He really didn't know why Sherlock was so fascinating to him.   
But he was. John couldn't get him out of his head. He didn't even want to.   
'The guy's a bloody psychop-'   
'Shut up, will you?' John finally said. He was sick of being interrupted in this thoughts. 'I'm getting some air.' He shoved himself out of the chair and outside before Andrew could protest and before he could talk himself out of it.   
He saw a dark figure standing against the chain link fence.  
He headed straight towards it.   
When John approached him, Sherlock wasn't looking. John cleared his throat, in an attempt to let Sherlock know he was there, so that he didn't sneak up.  
'Yes. I saw you.' Sherlock didn't turn, his back was still to John. His voice was tense.   
After a moment, he sighed and turned to face John, and he looked slightly annoyed.   
He produced a cigarette out of nowhere, seemingly, and placed it in his mouth with the ease of someone who was used to the action.   
John gulped as he watched him.   
He'd never found the act of smoking to be particularly interesting until now.   
'How much?' He asked from around the cigarette. He fumbled with his coat pocket until he found a lighter. He lit it with expert hands and then looked at John as he took the first drag.   
John stared at the long, pale fingers holding the cigarette.   
He absentmindedly licked his lips, and Sherlock must've noticed him staring, because he raised an eyebrow.   
John was literally staring at his hands. He shook himself, reminded himself, don't be weird. Weird could put off some people.  
However, John felt that it was his mere presence, weird or not, that was putting Sherlock off.   
'Um, what?' Sherlock's eyes were so startingly blue that John forgot what he'd come over here to do in the first place. Christ, what was he thinking? Sherlock didn't want to talk to a guy like him.   
He should turn around now and walk away.   
But he didn't.   
'I said how much?' Sherlock repeated, running a hand through his hair. When John didn't respond, he sighed. 'How much money was the bet?'  
'Bet?' John was genuinely confused.   
'To talk to me?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow again and leaned back against the fence, body languid and relaxed. As if he belonged right there, as if that spot on the rusted old fence was his place in the world. 'Oh, please. It's not like you're speaking to me out of the goodness of your little heart.' He rolled his eyes and took another long breath of his cigarette. John was quiet for a moment, staring at Sherlock, suddenly fascinating with the smoke. He'd never found it interesting before. Then again, he'd never met anyone as interesting as Sherlock.   
'No one's paying me anything.' John frowned, when he'd finally remembered to stop staring and speak.   
'So this social suicide, talking to the freak, the loser,' Sherlock glanced around overdramatically and stage whispered, ',the queer.' He chucked the slightest bit, as if he found the insults charming. 'You're doing this for free?' He snorted. 'Okay, it's your funeral, I suppose.'   
He patted the fence beside him. 'Join me then, loser.' Sherlock smirked.   
John joined him.   
He wondered about what Sherlock had said. Did people really believe such awful things about him? Or was that just part of his overdramatic, bad guy demeanor?   
John recalled the comments of the other students. So maybe they did believe he was awful.   
'You smoke?' John shook his head. Man, John thought. Does he act like this all the time? Sherlock sighed loudly, dramatically, as if being in close proximity with another human being was exhausting.   
Yes, it appeared that he did act this way consistently.   
'Good. I don't like sharing anyways.' Sherlock kicked at a rock with the toe of his shoe.   
The mental image of sharing a single cigarette with Sherlock, that both their lips would've touched it as they passed it back and forth, it made John's heart race. He knew that that's not what Sherlock had in mind either way, though.   
The thought remained, and he couldn't shake it.   
'John. John Watson.' John didn't offer a handshake this time, as he introduced himself properly.   
He was afraid that if he touched one of Sherlock's pale, thin hands, he might spontaneously combust. He wasn't sure what he was feeling or why, he only knew that it had to stop.   
'I know.' Sherlock said, pausing to blow smoke.   
'What?' Sherlock only sighed in response, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and ran a hand through his hair.   
'I knew we had a new student. When the teacher said Watson, I remembered the attendance sheet. I saw it. Your name. John, John Watson. It was just a matter of observation.'  
'Oh.' John wasn't sure what to say to that. 'And you are?'  
Sherlock snorted.  
'Don't be dull, John. We both know that you know full well who I am.' Sherlock frowned at his cigarette, flicking away ashes. 'You've heard the horror stories yet?'   
'Horror?' John was genuinely confused. He'd heard a lot, true, but nothing he'd consider a story. Certainly no horror stories.  
'Oh, the usual. Stories like, I ate my twin in the womb, murdered my family as a child. Killed a man for pure enjoyment. You know, usual.'   
John didn't even hold back his laughter. Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile, and he laughed slightly too. For a moment, they both laughed, and John felt a weight lift off his chest.   
Maybe moving hadn't been so bad after all.   
'That was bloody brilliant.' He grinned.   
Sherlock looked surprised.  
'Was it?' His voice was softer now, lacking the confidence it had before.   
'Yes.' John admitted, biting his lip. 'I think you're brilliant.' It was the most honest thing he'd said so far; but it was still far from the whole truth.   
You're amazing, John wanted to tell him. You fascinate me.   
But of course, he didn't say that.   
'You don't know me.' Sherlock's voice was quickly cold again.   
He dropped his cigarette, stepping on it with the toe of his beat up sneaker.   
Without a word, he brushed past John and walked back towards the building, leaving John in a haze of smoke and confusion and disappointment.   
The next time John saw Sherlock was after school that day, when he was getting ready to walk home.   
He'd just gotten his books from his locker and the students had mostly cleared out.   
He was walking down the hall when he heard someone talking.   
'Freak.' The voice wasn't exactly angry, but definately agressive. John slowed, approaching the corridor quietly.   
'You worthless, miserable-' John heard the sound of a body being slammed against something. The wall, he guessed.   
He already knew what he'd be seeing when he looked around the corner, but he did anyways.  
And it was not what he'd been expecting.  
Well, it was. But the person he'd been expecting was an anonymous nobody, some poor victim.   
Instead, it was someone tall and pale.  
John stifled a gasp as he took in the scene; Sherlock against the wall, cowering while a significantly larger boy had him by the collar of his shirt, spitting insults down onto him.   
Sherlock's feet were sliding out from under him, and he struggled to stay up while the boy slammed him against the wall again.   
The force of it made Sherlock wince, and John bit his own hand to stifle a shocked, horrified sound.   
No, no, no, no. This can't happen, John thought. But he'd never been one for violence. He'd been in two fights his whole life. And this guy was huge; John couldn't take him.   
The boy pulled Sherlock onto his feet.   
John knew it was going to happen before it did, but it still utterly shocked him.   
A fist slamming into the side of that pale face, Sherlock hitting the wall before crumpling to the ground under the impact of it.   
Blood oozing from that mouth, face on the floor.   
Sherlock pushed himself up onto his hands, and spit out blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red on his skin. He turned his head up to look at his attacker.   
'Not your best.' Sherlock's voice was broken, a weak sound, but his words were strong, regardless. 'You can do better than that, come on.' He grinned wildly, blood staining his teeth.   
His attacker's shoulders heaved with heavy breathing, but for a moment he didn't move.   
'Come on!' His plea was now a broken, strangled cry, and was rewarded with a kick to the ribs.   
Sherlock spat up more blood and rolled to his back, choking out a laugh.   
'More like it.' He coughed violently, then groaned.   
The other boy moved to kick him again, and John couldn't watch anymore.   
He jumped out into view.   
'Stop!' John's heart leapt to his throat. What the hell am I doing? Was in the back of his mind, but he couldn't stop now.   
'Just stop.' John found it hard to breathe, hard to speak. He took a moment to catch his breath.   
'Don't touch him.' John's mind was numb as the tall, muscular (ridiuculously so, in John's opinion) boy took a step towards John.  
'What the hell are you going to do about it?'   
Big and dumb, John thought vaguely. He glanced at Sherlock, whose face was vacant of all emotion. The blood on his face, the already purpling bruise on his jaw. The way his hand clutched at his side, where more bruises were surely forming.   
John laughed sharply, feeling hysteria rise in his chest at the awful sight.   
'I'll fucking kill you.' He said without thinking.   
He dared to look at Sherlock for a moment, and the expression on his face surprised John.  
He looked shocked, as if he didn't believe that John was really standing there.   
The boy in front of John was just as shocked.   
He didn't seem to have any clever response, so he just rolled his eyes after a few long moments. Then he replied.   
'I'll leave your boyfriend then.' He looked at Sherlock. 'He's not worth the trouble.'   
And then he walked off, without another word.   
John didn't move at all for a few more seconds after the guy had left.  
His mind seemed to have stopped functioning.   
Then, he dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock, who had pulled himself up to sit. He looked perfectly calm, despite what had just happened.   
'Oh god.' John said without meaning to. He reached out and touched Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock winced, pulling away. 'Oh god.' John repeated. His mind was numb.  
His palm slid over Sherlock's chin, smearing blood onto his hand.   
Sherlock remained perfectly still.   
They stared at each other then, and Sherlock's gratitude showed in his blue eyes. They didn't look even the slightest bit cold then.   
And then the moment was over, it seemed, because Sherlock moved away, his gaze icing over.   
He stood, managing not to cry out in pain, and turned on his heel and walked away, leaving John in the empty corridor, with Sherlock's blood on his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always lovely.  
> Requests are taken always.  
> Thanks for reading :)


	3. Goodbye to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's been having dreams.  
> They revolve around a certain outcast from the back of his first hour class.

John walked home in utter shock; confused and horrified at what had just happened.  
His parents were nowhere to be found, so John washed Sherlock's blood from his hands, drank some tea and curled up in bed.  
He didn't know how to function. He was still shocked.   
He heard the door open near midnight, and did his best to ignore the shouts of his parents. Nevermind the fact that it was the middle of the night. They had pointless arguments to repeat.   
It was the usual; you disappoint me, I disappoint you, there's bills to pay, damn it, and neither of us are paying them.   
John tuned it out. He was used to it now. It was an old routine. A new house didn't bring new habits.   
When his mother opened the door to check on him, he pretended to be asleep. He didn't want to talk to her. He rarely did these days.   
She'd ask him how his day was, and he would lie. She would lie, too. It was a system they had worked out by now; to pretend that life was good even though they both knew it really wasn't.   
John wasn't in the mood to play house with his mother.   
He was thinking of Sherlock Holmes.   
John was the epitome of irony. He understood that Sherlock was rude, and erratic, and far from friendly. Yet John was going out of his way to be near him. He nearly laughed at himself.   
Alone, in his bedroom, in the middle of the night, he felt almost okay with thinking of Sherlock. He didn't try and stop himself this time.  
He allowed his mind to worry himself sick with thoughts of Sherlock. He let his curiousity get the best of him.   
He wished he could make sure Sherlock was okay at least.  
But it wasn't as if they were friends. It wasn't as if John had his phone number, and could simply text him, or call.   
It wasn't as if John had any right at all to worry for him. And here he was, worrying anyways.   
John couldn't sleep.   
He thought of the way Sherlock had acted in the hall, encouraging the bully.   
'Come on.' He'd said. Sherlock had been asking for more, even as he spat out blood in pain on the ground. The scene replayed itself again in John's head.   
He'd been asking for more pain.  
John shuddered, feeling hopelessly sad at the fact that Sherlock was self destructive enough to want that kind of pain.  
But then, perhaps he was only being stubborn, trying to prove a point to the bully by being clever.  
Somehow John didn't think that was the case.  
He wanted to help Sherlock. To be there for him. To be his friend.  
John turned over in his bed, frowning at himself.  
That was stupid.   
Pointless.  
Guys like Sherlock weren't friends with guys like John. 

It was the next day that John realized a few things.   
He wasn't ever going to sleep again, not with Sherlock clouding up his mind.   
Sherlock was different.   
He made John wonder. He made him think. He was the reason John was losing sleep.   
He sat in each one of his classes that day, his mind wandering to none other than Sherlock Holmes.  
He realized that he wanted to see Sherlock again. To talk to him.   
Simply to make sure he was okay, John told himself. Not for sentiment or friendship, of course.  
Sentiment was stupid.  
Friendship? Out of the question.   
He looked. He didn't see Sherlock all day, though. 

John dreamed of Sherlock again that night. Dark hair, cold eyes, pale skin.   
He remembered that day, the way Sherlock had encouraged the bully to hit him, to hit him again, harder.  
The way he'd spat out the blood and cringed through the pain and still managed to remain dignified, even when beaten down. Even when choking on his own teeth, he'd grinned like a maniac and asked for more abuse.   
The way Sherlock had looked broken on the ground, bleeding.   
The way Sherlock had looked at John, almost helpless when his insane smiling had slipped away for a moment.   
The way he'd been so utterly shocked at the fact that another person was decent enough to help him.   
The way he was so cynical, so suspicious of any act of kindness towards him.   
Then his thoughts shifted, and there was no more blood, no more bruises.   
There was pale skin, and dark hair, and closing eyelids and shaking breaths.   
Then there was no more pain.   
Then - John dreamed that Sherlock Holmes was kissing him.   
It was slow and soft in the dream, just a brush of the lips, simply a subconsious fantasy.   
But if that was all it was, then why couldn't John shake the ghost of dream-Sherlock's lips from his?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Brand New lyrics as title (Degausser, still)   
> Lots more fic to come very soon as well.


	4. Exactly What I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a bit of a talent for pushing people away.   
> John has a bit of a talent for going away.

The next day, John finally saw him again. It had only been a day, but to John it was forever. A lot had changed since then.   
He'd had so much time to think.   
Laying awake at night. Dreaming, sometimes. Eyes open or closed, only one person was on John's mind.   
It was his fourth class of the day, and he had two more periods before lunch.   
He was already thinking of Sherlock. He had been all week, constantly.   
He couldn't stop himself anymore. It seemed stupid to try. No one could hear his thoughts, anyways.   
But you're letting yourself do something very stupid, John, he reminded himself.   
He nearly rolled his eyes.   
He was going mad inside this bloody building.   
He looked out the window into the bleary, gray streaked world outside. It wasn't raining, but it looked as if it might.   
There was the dark figure, by the fence.   
If John squinted, he could probably make out the faint spark of a lighter as he lit a new cigarette, could imagine him inhaling smoke into his lungs. He could imagine exactly how Sherlock would look, pale and perfectly in place against the gray sky.   
Without thinking, John stood, asked to go the bathroom, and left.  
He went straight to the courtyard before he could convince himself what a bad idea it was. 

Sherlock looked surprised to see John again.   
John felt more nervous than he should have, as if Sherlock could somehow tell he'd been fantasizing about him.  
He tried to act calm.   
Sherlock barely even glanced at him.   
'You.' Sherlock said flatly. It didn't sound accusing, or curious. Just a blunt, factual statement.   
'Don't you have a class you should be in?' Sherlock asked, sounding disinterested. His lip was split just barely, and he flinched the slightest bit when placing his cigarette between his lips again.   
He looked calm and reposed, nothing like the frantic, desperate mess John had seen last time they'd talked.   
Then again, what did John know about him? Maybe this was normal for Sherlock.   
'Don't you?' John replied, struggling to stop staring at Sherlock's lips.   
Sherlock shrugged, breathing in smoke.   
John drew a sharp breath as Sherlock turned his head slightly, exposing the dark mark on his jaw.  
At a glance, it could almost be mistaken for a shadow. But John knew different.  
The bruise was purple mostly, a little blacker in the middle.  
John didn't say anything, though.   
He got the feeling that Sherlock wasn't one for thank you's, and that he more than likely didn't want to talk about it.  
John still felt angry about it though. He should've intervened sooner. Maybe Sherlock's pretty face wouldn't be so messed up then...   
Pretty? John shook himself. He couldn't think like that. It would only cause trouble.   
'You sure do smoke a lot of those things.' John said stupidly.   
He didn't know what to say. He didn't know why he'd come out here in the first place.   
He wasn't Sherlock's friend. Sherlock didn't have friends. He didn't want them.   
He certainly didn't want John.   
'Yes.' Sherlock frowned at the cigarette, as if disapproving of his own bad habit. He looked calmly detatched, still, as if the idea of smoking wasn't something he considered. As if it was just a fact. Then he shrugged again, taking another drag.  
'Why?'  
'They kill you.' Sherlock said simply.  
'Yeah, so why would you do that?' John didn't really want to know. All he knew was that he had to keep the conversation casual and hope Sherlock didn't notice John staring at him.   
'Do you really want to have this conversation? With me?' Sherlock seemed suspicious.   
He had every right to be. John was questioning his own motives. What was he thinking?   
'Yes.' John said slowly. He nodded, and Sherlock continued.   
'They kill you slowly, though.' Sherlock pointed out. 'So it's like the cigarette's inside of you, pulling you apart from the inside out. It's all very poetic, you know, all that bullshit.' Sherlock flicked stray ash away. 'Bullshit.' He looked down, not embarrassed, just disinterested.   
'Bullshit?' Sherlock looked back up as John spoke, meeting his eyes. John found it hard to breathe with such bright, clear eyes on his.  
He felt like Sherlock was looking right through him.   
'Yes. Poetry is not something I find,' Sherlock waved his hand holding the cigarette around, as if gesturing to words in the air John couldn't see. 'Interesting.I smoke only because it gives my mind something else to do.'   
'Smoke affects your mind?'   
Sherlock looked at him as if he was stupid.   
'No.' He shook his head. 'But instead of compulsively observing every detail I see, I focus my mind on the poison in my lungs.' He spoke flatly, as if there were no other explanation. He placed the cigarette in his mouth again.   
'Why would you want to poison yourself?' John didn't understand.   
'You just wouldn't grasp the concept.' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. 'Smoking is the least of my poisons.' He said it as if he didn't want to explain it, not as if he thought it was really outside the realm of John's understanding.   
John knew better than to ask what was the worst. He didn't want to risk Sherlock freezing up and shutting down again. He quickly changed the subject.   
'So.. What do you like to do?' John said awkwardly.  
'Small talk?' Sherlock dropped his cigarette. 'John, if I didn't know better I'd say you were,' Sherlock placed a palm over his heart and faked surprise. 'Trying to be my friend.' He gasped for effect.   
'I am.' John frowned. 'Don't be a prick about it, then.'   
Sherlock laughed shortly, pulling out another cigarette.   
'It's safe to say I'm a prick about most things.' Sherlock lit the cigarette, and John stared again.   
'No, you aren't.' John shook his head. 'You're trying to be. But you really aren't.' He didn't know why he said it. But there it was, out in the open now. John defending him, even though they were strangers.   
'You don't know much, do you?' Sherlock's voice was sharp; John winced slightly. 'There's a reason I'm treated like the plague around here, John.'   
Sherlock took a few steps, until he was just beside John, and stopped.  
'And maybe soon, you'll find out what that reason is.'   
Sherlock started to brush past John and walk away, just like the day before.  
Without thinking, John turned and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's coat, and held on tightly.  
John held his breath, prepared for retaliation; maybe Sherlock would yell, maybe he'd hit him. John braced himself for a bad reaction, but didn't let go.   
Sherlock turned to face him, held in place by the sleeve of his jacket in John's fist.   
'Stop.' John said, and he was glad his voice didn't shake. Sherlock was so close; he was so pale, so startlingly odd. So tall.   
From here, John could see the pale smoothness of his face, the way the white skin was interrupted by stark purple and blue in the bruise on his jaw, the way he wore the injury so easily, as if he was used to it now.   
'Why?' Sherlock pushed John's hand away.   
'Because if you're as awful as everyone seems to think,' John tried to meet Sherlock's eyes, but Sherlock seemed to be looking anywhere except at John. 'I'm going to decide that for myself. Okay?'   
Sherlock didn't respond. It seemed that he was considering this. It also seemed like this whole thing was more than a little awkward for him. John imagined that he hadn't had many friends.   
Sherlock was still for a moment, then his expression went cold.   
'Decide whatever you want, Watson. I don't give a shit what you or any of these other incompetents think of me.' Sherlock spat.   
He didn't look angry, just annoyed, as if John were a word written on Sherlock's paper that wouldn't erase, or a smudge of ink to be scrubbed from his hand.   
John saw it then, in his eyes. Sherlock thought nothing more of John than an annoyance.   
He pulled away from John and stalked off, leaving John to wonder what he'd done wrong this time. 

Sherlock was gone.   
Two days passed.   
He must've not gone to school at all, because John would have notice him.  
He told himself he wasn't searching for dark hair, a black coat, or a pale face in the hallways.  
But he was lying to himself a lot these days. 

The weekend came and went. John spent it in his room, pretending it was familiar and cozy and safe.   
Pretending it felt like his.  
It didn't; and John wasn't good enough at pretending.   
He gave up and curled up in bed.   
He'd never felt so miserable.  
His mother was in the kitchen, probably doing the week old dishes. Funny how even in a brand new house, she'd already kept up with their bad habits.   
John's dad wasn't home. John was past the point of caring where he was. When he left, his mum drank less and smiled more and John felt more at peace.  
It wasn't as if his father hit either of them.  
But the words were enough: more than enough to compensate for lack of physical pain, in John's opinion.   
John knew his mum was trying her best to be happy.   
This new school, this new place, this new house, this new life.  
It wasn't happy.   
And John hated it. He hated his parents for forcing him to move. He hated himself for being so stupid. For overthinking himself into questioning his own thoughts, feelings, and even his sexuality.   
Not that it mattered to John much. Relationships were a shipwreck anyways. He imagined that a relationship with a boy would be just the same.   
He hated Sherlock Holmes for making John fall for him. For being so interesting and different and everything that John wasn't. For making John think he wanted Sherlock. And then for being such an impossible asshole.   
And screwing everything up.   
John hated everything. 

'What's the bloody point?' John asked his reflection.  
He wore a jumper under his jacket like always.   
He was just plain.  
Nothing exceptional, and he didn't try to be. No use in trying. He was a blank canvas, and any time he'd try to paint the colors just came out bland and dull anyways.  
John imagined Sherlock's canvas would be a swirl of dark, sad, beautiful colors.  
He frowned at himself.  
Why was it that every thought he had traced itself back to Sherlock?  
He grabbed his school things and left.  
He walked; his mother driving him to school was a rare occurance. Today she was face down in her bed, either hungover or simply exhausted, John couldn't tell the difference anymore.   
John tried his best to pull himself together on the way to school, but it was hard.  
Life was dull. He was dull. School was dull. The one thing he found to be interesting, was avoiding him, it seemed.   
He simply didn't know the purpose of trying anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)   
> Comments and requests are lovely


	5. Take Apart the Counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You genuinely want to be around me.' Sherlock spoke slowly, each word deliberate. His icy voice was warmer now. 'You know how bad I am, yet you won't leave. Like a puppy.' Sherlock seemed to stifle a laugh. 'It's hilarious.'

The mind games began on that Tuesday.  
John felt awful. Tired, strung out, and a bit annoyed. He kept his eyes down and didn't bother with his classwork.  
He felt no interest in even pretending.   
It was about halfway through class when it started.   
John had spent most of the time he wasn't looking down, staring at Sherlock and trying his best to be inconspicuous. And failing.   
Sherlock.   
Having first hour with him was proving to be a test of John's physical restraint.  
He was simultaneously fighting impulses to choke him and to kiss him.   
John wasn't sure which urge was strongest, and it was rather frustrating.   
John was still angry with him for pushing away all offers of kindness. All John had tried to do was offer a hand, a bit of humanity. And the prick had refused to accept any of it.   
But at the same time, grabbing him by the shoulders and crushing their mouths together didn't sound like bad option. No, it didn't sound bad at all.   
It wasn't just Sherlock who was causing it- oh, no, Sherlock remained perfectly stoic and composed in his seat, in that stupid fucking coat, tracing invisible patterns onto the knee of his jeans with his finger.   
But Sherlock was making it difficult to avoid him. If John wasn't smarter, he'd almost think Sherlock was flirting.   
The bruises on his face hadn't faded in the slightest, and John grimaced, imagining how the blow must've felt.   
John's chest tightened, angry and sad all at once.  
Sherlock didn't exactly advertise the injury, but he didn't hide it either. There it was; the black marks of pain on his porcelain skin.  
John looked past the bruising, at the clear, bright eyes and the permanent scowl.   
Sherlock wore the bruises like they weren't even there.   
It was rather difficult to stare, since Sherlock was behind him, but John managed to do so regardless.  
He was probably being terribly obvious as well; any time Sherlock shifted in the slightest, John drew a shaky breath and pretended to look away.   
Sherlock ignored his staring. Except for one time.   
The memory burned itself onto John's mind, to the inside of his eyelids.   
Once, when Sherlock caught him staring, he met John's eyes and slowly dragged his finger up his thigh. He didn't flinch or look away from John. His eyes were wide, almost innocent, at first, but then his gaze changed and grew hungrier, inviting. His gaze didn't even falter once.   
John abruptly turned into a shaking, horrified wreck as he watched. He knew other people were staring, but he couldn't even close his gaping mouth. He couldn't tear his eyes away and his heart was racing and -Christ, Sherlock was just touching his leg. But there was something obscene about the suggestion, and it sent John's heart hammering against his ribs. It sent his mind into a flurry of images of Sherlock in some compromising situations.   
Then, as if waking himself from a dream, Sherlock frowned and shoved both hands in his coat pockets, staring sullenly at the wall again.   
Leaving John to catch his breath and try and look anywhere but Sherlock.   
He failed again.  
'Holmes?' The teacher was saying, and when John heard Sherlock's voice responsing, he instantly listened.   
'I would just like to inform that you aren't properly dressed.' Sherlock's voice was disinterested. He seemed bored.   
'Excuse me?'   
The teacher was a stuffy, fourty something year old, with balding blonde hair and dark circles around his eyes.  
He wore a sloppy button down shirt, and slacks.   
He wasn't memorable, or unforgettable; just average.   
Sherlock sighed, drawing out the sound to such a length that John wondered how a smoker was able to have that lung capacity.   
Sherlock made him wonder about most everything these days.   
'Your shirt. One of the buttons is halfway undone. Implying that you dressed in a hurry, with little care about appearance. Something else was on your mind, it was a high pressure situation. Also your zipper is down. Which- well, I think you and I both know what that's implying. That you were in a rush, enough so that you didn't even realize your trousers weren't properly done.' John looked at Sherlock then.  
Sherlock's eyes were blazing: there was a light in them that John had never seen.  
He didn't look bored now; he looked like an artist painting, or a singer singing. John could tell instantly that this was what gave Sherlock a rush.   
John was amazed.   
'Which is because of your affair with Ms. Breyner up the hall. How do I know it's her? Oh, do ask. You're all so bloody ignorant. The coffee and lipstick stains on your sleeve. The lipstick matches her shade, and you don't drink coffee. But she does. Hence the residual marks on your shirt.' Sherlock took a short breath. 'Now do tell me, Mr. Harrison, does your wife now?'   
In John's experience, now was the part when the class erupted into laughter and applause, and appraised the brilliant boy who'd reduced their teacher to little more than a few sentences.   
Yet it was so silent, John expected to hear crickets.   
John wanted to applaud. He'd never heard anything that brilliant in his life.  
'How did you-' John felt breathless.   
'You see. But you don't observe. It's a simple matter of deduction.' Sherlock replied sharply, barely turning his head to glance at John.  
But, if John wasn't mistaken, Sherlock's gaze lingered on him for just the slightest moment before looking away.   
'Holmes.' Harrison's voice was dangerously shaky. 'Someone esc-'   
John watched as Sherlock grabbed his bag from the floor and stood, and Harrison cut off.   
'I can escort myself.' Sherlock spat. He walked out the doorway.   
He glanced back at John once, his expression full of annoyance.   
Even annoyance is okay, as long as he's looking at me, John thought. 

Sherlock returned before the end of class.   
He came in quietly, offered no explanation, and took his seat behind John.  
He'd brought back cold air, and the smell of smoke. And a bit of something else; just Sherlock's smell, John presumed .  
Great. Now you even like his smell. John thought vaguely. 

 

'What the bloody hell is wrong with you?'   
John demanded.   
He'd stopped Sherlock after class, just outside the doorway.   
Sherlock didn't even appear mildly surprised, just a bit annoyed. He leaned against the wall, lounging as if he had all the time in the world to ignore John.   
John ignored the horrified stares of his classmates.  
He heard the whispers as they passed them:   
'He's talking to the freak?'   
'Gross.'   
'-gay?'   
Sherlock's eyes only flicked away to look at them once, and he seemed entirely unaffected.   
A person got used to things, John supposed.   
'Swearing, John.' Was all Sherlock said in response. Even in monotone, his voice still set off fantasies in John's mind. Sherlock looked as if he'd pull out a cigarette at any moment. Nevermind the fact that they were in the school.  
Somehow John didn't think that the thought would occur to Sherlock.   
'Stop that.' Sherlock snapped.  
'I didn't say anything.' John's anger dropped for a moment in his confusion.  
'But you were thinking.' Sherlock frowned. He folded his arms over his chest. 'Don't you have some pathetic, middle aged lecture to listen to right about now?'   
And, right on cue, the second bell rang, making John late for his class. The hall was mostly cleared out.   
'Don't avoid me.' John tried to sound angry, but his voice was nothing compared to the iciness of Sherlock's. Sherlock's words were cutting, sharp when he liked them to be; like icicles digging into your flesh with every syllable.   
John's was just shaky.   
'Not worth the effort.' Sherlock snorted.   
He looked up, avoiding John's eyes. He didn't fidget the way most people did: he didn't have ny unnessecary movements at all. His hands stayed at his sides, his fingers still as well. He didn't shift his weight on his feet.   
The only thing moving was his eyes, shifting all around the hallway.   
'Do you think it's funny to mess with me?' John asked.  
'No. I don't find you humourous, John.' Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
'Then why, every time I try being nice to you, do you act like such an asshole?'  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment.   
'That wasn't trying very hard to be nice, John.' He finally replied.   
John sighed.   
He thought about asking about what had happened in class, with the hand on the leg and the eye contact.   
But he didn't know what to say-   
When you touched your leg suggestively, was that intended as sexual innuendo? As a sexual suggestion?  
Sherlock would laugh him off the face of the earth.   
And John didn't feel like being laughed at.  
'This is why you don't have friends.'   
Hurt flashed across Sherlock's face for the slightest second, before he covered it with a cool disinterest.   
'Why don't you, to put it delicately, John-' Sherlock looked down at his hands as if they were significantly more interesting than this conversation. 'Fuck off.'   
Hearing Sherlock's voice- that deep, smooth sound- swearing, even at John's expense, oh it was wonderful. John's skin burned at the mere sound of it, at the other suggestions the word could take on.   
He wanted to hear the sound over and over again.  
He was still reveling in the sound of Sherlock's voice; it took him a minute to comprehend Sherlock's words.  
'Stop.' John felt lightheaded as he looked up at Sherlock. He reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, who didn't move an inch, but stiffened under John's palm.   
'John, don't-'   
'Shut up.'   
'What?'  
'I told you to shut up, Sherlock.' John took a deep breath. 'I'm not going to leave you alone.'  
'Like hell you aren't.' Sherlock snapped. 'If you couldn't tell, I'm not exactly the school's favorite student and there's a good reason, John.'   
'I don't give a shit.' John blurted. 'I think you're.... You... You're-'   
John struggled to find the right word.  
Amazing? Fantastic? Incredible?  
'-interesting.' He finished lamely instead. He didn't want Sherlock to notice his hesitation.   
But Sherlock noticed everything.   
He seemed to be thinking, and was quiet for a moment.  
John, face burning with shame at the realization that his hand was still on Sherlock, quickly moved away.   
Sherlock began to laugh.  
'What the hell is so funny?' John demanded. For a moment he felt sure that Sherlock had realized John's feelings. That he was laughing at him.   
'Just you.' Sherlock said suddenly. 'I retract my previous statement.' Sherlock smirked. 'I do find you to be quite humorous, John.'  
'I'm not fucking joking!'   
'I know.' Sherlock looked at him directly. 'That's why it's funny.'   
'Excuse me?' John raised an eyebrow. God, you're mad, he thought. You are absolutely insane. I love it.   
'You genuinely want to be around me.' Sherlock spoke slowly, each word deliberate. His icy voice was warmer now. 'You know how bad I am, yet you won't leave. Like a puppy.' Sherlock seemed to stifle a laugh. 'It's hilarious.'   
This is the choice you've made, John, he told himself. Sherlock Holmes, the great, inconsiderate, rude, careless asshole.   
'I'm not going to stand here while you degrade me.' John fumed. He turned to leave, but was shocked when someone grabbed his upper arm.  
'John.' Sherlock's voice was serious again. John turned slowly, taking a deep breath. Sherlock looked as detatched as ever, but a bit more thoughtful. Sherlock let go of his arm quickly as if John were something poisonous.   
'I'm.... I'm sorry.' Sherlock sounded unsure, and John knew he didn't give apologies often.  
He looked almost vulnerable, the bruises darker in this light, and John imagined the blood all over again.   
He felt a pang in his chest.   
Sherlock was only cold for good reason. He was isolated by everyone else, so he did his best and made his isolation his own choice.   
John understood now.   
'It's okay.' John barely breathed.   
'I'd rather- I mean, I'd enjoy... I'd rather enjoy possiblt engaging in a friendship. With you.' Sherlock sounded awkward, as if every word has a strange and foreign taste.   
'Would you?' John didn't want to get his hopes up if Sherlock was only joking.   
'Yes. I would like to be friends. If your original offer still stands.' Sherlock looked ready to be shut down, almost hopeful for rejection. He was so used to being put down that he expected it.   
'Of course it stands.' Sherlock looked surprised. 'I understand why you're such a prick.'   
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smirk for a split second. John smiled.   
'Do you...?' Sherlock gestured to the door. It led to the courtyard.   
John knew he should be getting to class, but...   
Sherlock Holmes, the object of his fantasies, was here now, inviting John outside for a smoke.  
He looked too perfect; slightly confused, eyes lit up, hair messy.   
John simply couldn't refuse.


	6. You Sipped From the Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock was too observant, too intelligent. He'd realize the actual meaning of the words, and then he'd turn John away.   
> Because John had a crush on Sherlock.   
> A pointless, stupid crush. Sherlock did not reciprocate John's foolish emotions.  
> There was no point in admitting them.   
> Sherlock barely tolerated John as they were. Almost friends.

What made you decide?' He asked.   
'Decide what?' They sat against the fence, a few feet apart. Sherlock smoked. John didn't. They talked a little.   
'To talk to me. To be my... Friend.'  
'Oh.' John realized that he didn't actually know. All he knew was that once he'd talked to Sherlock, he was the only thing John could think about.   
Sherlock had taken over his thoughts and consumed him. 'I don't know.' He said finally. 'You're... Different. And I liked you.'   
Sherlock stayed quiet.  
'I just, I mean I thought we could be friends.' John added quickly. Actually saying 'I like you' to Sherlock was suddenly a scary thought.   
Sherlock was too observant, too intelligent. He'd realize the actual meaning of the words, and then he'd turn John away.   
Because John had a crush on Sherlock.   
A pointless, stupid crush. Sherlock did not reciprocate John's foolish emotions.  
There was no point in admitting them.   
Sherlock barely tolerated John as they were. Almost friends.   
'Thank you.' Sherlock said stiffly.  
'Don't thank me for being your friend, Sher-'   
'No. I meant thank you for... For the other day, John.'   
John's breath caught in his throat at the sound of his own name passing through those lips. That voice.   
'No one has ever... Done that before. For me. What you did was... Nice.' Sherlock finished awkwardly, putting out his mostly burnt out cigarette on the toe of his shoe. His hair fell into his eyes as he looked down.   
His fingers were pale and almost elegant, and John watched him with more than curiosity.   
He looked so good, and John's mind was racing, and he knew he had to respond very soon or Sherlock would realize he was just staring at him.   
'I was only being a decent human being.' John blurted.   
He immediately wished he could take it back. He was an idiot. He knew that any response would've been better than that.   
Sherlock looked hurt for a split second, and then just slightly disappointed. As if he'd been anticipating this moment. Then he was distant and cold again. That was what he did best; shut down from all human emotion.   
'Of course.' Sherlock said sharply. He stood abruptly, adjusting his coat. 'How foolish it would be to have thought anything else of it.' There was a dangerous note to his voice, a tenseness that sounded ready to snap. 'I have things to do.' He added abruptly.   
And like that, before John could even stand, or protest, Sherlock was walking away. 

John was the foolish one.  
How foolish he was to think he'd felt anything for Sherlock Holmes.  
How foolish he was to think they could've been friends.  
How foolish he was to think that he was special enough for the great Sherlock to tolerate.   
How foolish. 

John had no friends at school. Again.   
The brief friendship with Sherlock was now looking more and more like a dream.   
It also seemed that he must've caught that mysterious plague from Sherlock, and now his classmates were all avoiding him. 

It was his last period of the day when someone spoke to him.  
He was at the table in the back of chemistry, avoiding his classwork as well as his fellow classmates.   
She'd walked straight up to him, blonde curls bouncing behind her as she faked a smile.  
John noticed that she was very pretty, but he didn't feel anything at all about it like he would have a year or so ago.   
Before, he might've wanted to date her. Now, her attractiveness wasn't an interest.   
That was most likely because of John's interest in another certain someone with black hair and blue eyes.   
John couldn't remember the girl's name exactly; Aly or Amy or maybe Alia.  
Not that it mattered.   
'Jim, right?' Her voice was forcefully kind as she leaned against the table. John didn't see any logical reason why she'd bother speaking to him.  
'John.' John winced as she faked another smile. What could she possibly want?  
'So, I've been asking around a bit.' She twirled her hair around her finger, and John supposed that the action could be found endearing. He just found it slightly annoying, instead. 'There's been talk about you.'   
'That's nice.' John pretended to write something in his notebook.  
Anything to get Ms. Fake Smile off of his table.   
Suddenly, her posture changed as she leaned over the table and mock whispered, so loud that everyone turned to look.  
'Someone told me you're Sherlock Holmes's new boyfriend.'   
John dropped his pen, mortified as he realized that the majority of his class had overheard and was now looking.   
The blood rushed to his face, despite his efforts to remain calm.   
I wish, he wanted to say. Oh, I wish that was true.   
'I've got to know-' She was saying, leaning in, and John smelled her sickly sweet perfume, and her fake smile was leering now and he felt sick.  
He knew she was mocking him, he knew what she was going to ask before she said it.   
'Are you top or bottom?'   
The class immediately burst into laughter.   
John was certain he going to be sick.  
He pushed away from the table with shaking hands and stumbled out into the hall.  
He needed some air. He needed a break. He needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He glanced back at his class.   
His school things were all in that classroom.   
But John's mind was reeling, and he was embarrassed and shocked and angry. Angry at his classmates' ignorance. Angry at himself for reacting so poorly. Angry that Sherlock hadn't been there to supply a witty reply.   
Angry that the rumor wasn't true.   
To hell with it, John decided, and walked outside. 

John's anger fueled him.  
He stomped across the grass field to the fence.  
There Sherlock was, as usual, but for some reason there was no cigarrette in sight. Instead, Sherlock was scowling, hands in the pockets of his coat.   
'Hey!' It wasn't a friendly greeting; John yelled it as an accusation.  
Sherlock's scowl twisted even further when he noticed John.  
'I'm fucking talking to you.' John growled, stopping in front of Sherlock.  
Sherlock didn't say anything.   
'Fine. Ignore me all you want, you ignorant prick. But I've got something to say.' John went on.   
'I'm not leaving you alone.'   
Sherlock took a sharp, surprised breath then. But he still wouldn't look at John.   
'I don't want any-' John cut off. Anyone else, he thought. But I can't tell him that.   
'I don't want to be friends with those people.' John nodded back towards the school.  
Sherlock looked at him then, his eyes blank as they traveled over John.  
'Ah.' Sherlock said quietly. 'You've been bullied.' Sherlock seemed to be thinking. 'Because of me.'   
'No. Well, yes, but-'   
'I am not your friend, John Watson.' Sherlock spat, his voice full of venom.   
John shrunk back, forgetting everything he needed to say.   
Sherlock pulled his hands free of his pockets and took two steps closer.   
'Are you really that stupid?' He went on. Christ, John thought. He looked so wonderful, eyes blazing, hair falling into his face, pale skin only interrupted by a fading bruise.   
'I don't have friends. I'm not that kind of person. People don't like me. I'm not likeable. You aren't really my friend.' Sherlock looked so serious, so urgent, that John felt hysteria rising. Laughter bubbled out of him before he could stop it.   
'You're my friend, you fucker.' He said between gasping laughs.  
Sherlock was surprised; he stumbled back a step.   
John looked up at him.   
'Whether you want me to be yours or not, I like you, Sherlock.' John stopped laughing. 'You aren't easy to like. But I like you.'   
'You've gone through... Difficulties. At this school, because of me.' Sherlock spoke slowly.   
'Difficulties? Hell yeah, I have. But that's high school, Sherlock, and a few bitchy students making jokes at my expense aren't going to stop me from being your friend.'   
'They've been unkind to you.'   
'Yes. So?'  
'John, you are the kind of person people like. You are likeable. And yet, those people do not like you. Not for your own causes, but because of your association to me.' Sherlock spoke as if stating a simple fact.   
'So if I'm suffering already, why can't we just be friends?' John sounded desperate even though he tried not to.   
'Because, I- because we can't.' Sherlock tripped over his words. He searched his pockets absentmindedly, but didn't pull out a cigarette, to John's surprise and slight disappointment. He sort of liked watching Sherlock smoke.   
'Well, fuck.' John said without thinking, and moved to the fence and sat down on the worn concrete of the small sidewalk.  
'What are you doing?' Sherlock turned to face him.  
'Sitting with my friend.' John replied simply.  
Sherlock didn't respond for a long moment. Then, a slow smirk spread across his mouth.   
'You're stubborn.' Sherlock noted. He didn't move, though.   
'Yes. And so are you.' John replied.   
'You really like me?'   
It was so juvenile, the uncertainty in Sherlock's voice, the insecurity. The fear of being rejected. John's heart melted a little.   
'Yes. How many times are you going to make me say it, you bastard?'   
Sherlock grinned, and John couldn't breathe at the sight of it.   
Sherlock sat next to him, and it was almost like the day they'd sat together.  
'No smokes?' John asked after a moment. Sherlock was almost three feet away from him, but he still found it close enough that it was distracting.  
'Cut off.' Sherlock waved a hand absentmindedly.  
'Parents?'   
Sherlock snorted.  
'Nonexistent, mostly.' Sherlock replied. 'Brother.'   
'How much older?'   
Sherlock turned to him sharply, smiling slightly.   
'Good deduction, John. Older brother, of course. Because a younger brother wouldn't be disapproving of my bad habit; a younger brother wouldn't hold authority. Very good.' Sherlock spoke almost to himself. 'Five years.' Sherlock added.  
'So, 21, then?'   
'Yes. I assume you did the adding, because it's most likely that I am 16. Yes?'   
'Aren't you?'  
'Well. Yes.'   
'Okay. So am I.'   
'Obviously.' Sherlock stated.   
'Well, I'm glad he cut you off.'   
Sherlock's stare turned icy.   
'That's unhealthy.' John went on. 'And you should take better care of yourself.'   
'Ha.' Sherlock laughed sharply. 'Should I?' He said it with blatant disregard, as if his personal health was the last thought on his mind, as if his own well being was obsolete to him.   
'Yes. Because, as your friend, I wouldn't want to see you hurt.' John said simply.   
And even though Sherlock was brilliant, sometimes the simplest things could go right over his head.   
Sherlock was quiet for a long time then.   
'You, John Watson, are a bloody idiot.' He murmured, and John just smiled. 

John's home life was not going as smoothly.   
John's father had a short temper.  
It was something John had learned a long time ago. It was knowledge he considered valuable, because if he recognized that his father was in a bad mood, he could avoid him at all costs.  
That day, when John walked home from school, there was no avoiding it.   
John's mind went blurry after the first five minutes.   
Apparently John had somehow irreparably screwed up, yet again.   
He didn't bother paying attention to the specifics. He assumed it was due to the copious amounts of school he'd been missing.   
He didn't bother getting upset.  
He let his father's angry words hollow him out, drain his emotion and energy until there was nothing left.  
He didn't argue back. He never did.   
Later John crawled into bed, and slipped in and out of dreams of Sherlock all night. 

And then it was Saturday. Again.   
Last weekend had been the same. Dreary. Boring. Dull.  
John's mind barely registered the day passing, except for the fact that he didn't get to see Sherlock.  
Not that it mattered.   
It wasn't as if Sherlock was laying in his own bed right now, thinking of John.  
Oh no, John was ordinary where Sherlock was extraordinary. The friendship may last. But John was sick of putting hope into things that chewed him up and spat him out, a wrecked mess.   
He didn't leave his house.   
And then it was Sunday, and Monday was coming up. John spent the day in bed, thinking.  
He came to the conclusion that there was a very good possibility that he was losing his mind after only a week. 

The next day, John saw Sherlock in the morning.   
John told himself he hadn't been looking forward to seeing him.   
But still, he lingered near the fence, and when Sherlock showed up, as John knew he would, John didn't leave.   
'You're upset.' Sherlock said instantly.   
Today his hair was more disheveled than usual, falling in a dark disarry around his pale face.  
He wore his usual coat, black pants, and today a dark purple shirt. The standard Sherlock uniform; mainly black. And the same old beat up, cigarette burned sneakers. He lit his cigarette, holding it in gloved fingers.   
John appreciated the way Sherlock didn't bother buttoning the top buttons of his shirt. He appreciated the pale skin, the way that-   
Stop. Speak, John. He reminded himself yet again how to funcion in the prescence of Sherlock.   
'Hello to you, too, Sherlock.'   
'I apologize. It's just that I noticed and-' John was silent. 'John?'   
'Sherlock.' He responded immediately.   
He liked the feeling of saying Sherlock's name more than he wanted to admit.   
'Fuck off.' John blurted. He'd been thinking it, yeah, but hadn't intended on saying it.   
Sherlock looked mildly surprised, then just took a long drag of his cigarette and sighed. John wasn't surprised that he'd found a way to get more cigarettes.   
'Swearing is a nasty habit, John.' His voice was low, almost a growl. Sherlock flicked ash away as he spoke, and every bone in John's body stirred at hearing Sherlock say his name, even casually.  
'Yeah, well, so is smoking.' John spat. He knew his tone was sharp, but he didn't care. Damn Sherlock, and his voice too. John was upset. He didn't want to be toyed with, not today.   
Then Sherlock turned serious, frowning at John.   
'What happened?' John just shook his head, feeling upset, and now ridiculous.   
But the genuine concern that Sherlock was showing was so rare that John felt obliged to talk to him.   
John looked at him again, but the cynical sarcasm was nowhere to be found in Sherlock's expression. He looked calm, and serious.   
So Sherlock smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, while John sat in mostly silence. It wasn't awkward; more of a mutual, unspoken agreement. John was upset, Sherlock didn't do friendship things like talking about feelings.  
So this way, the silence worked for the both of them.  
It killed John, though. He always missed the sound of Sherlock's voice.   
And, god, if he kept it up at this rate he'd turn into some kind of swooning damsal in distress.  
And something told him that Sherlock wasn't exactly the prince type.


	7. You Don't Own Up to Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I like... Smoking.' Sherlock said.   
> 'That isn't a hobby.'   
> 'Well, you asked me to name what I like.' Sherlock huffed.  
> 'Okay, okay. Go on then.'   
> 'I like you. And you aren't a hobby.' Sherlock said flatly.   
> 'No, I'm not. I'm-'   
> John stopped.

Hanging around Sherlock didn't help John's social status.  
It seemed that his name was becoming popular in the whispers around the school as well now.   
He tried not to care; what did they matter, anyway? But the accusing glares stung a bit sometimes, as hard as he tried to brush them off.   
John asked himself, is this my new life now? Hanging out with moody, but brilliant smokers? Disappointing my parents? Being the school gossip? Developing crushes on the previous mentioned smokers? 

The next two days went on uneventfully.   
Except for the fact that John was helplessly falling more and more for Sherlock every day.   
It would happen at the most subtle of moments: when Sherlock would run a hand through his hair, when he'd deduce a person down to their basic life details with just one glance, when he'd look over at John as if he were a rare species. But the looks grew less and less like Sherlock was looking at a lab specimen, and the looks grew warmer.   
Isn't it just friendly? John asked himself. He's only being kind.   
But sometimes, John would speak, and Sherlock would rest his chin on his hand and just listen. John would wonder whether he'd heard a word, but then Sherlock would respond with a well thought out reply.   
John's breath would catch each time, and he'd try not to stare, and he'd feel hopeless as his mind started to obsess just a little more.   
It wasn't as if Sherlock would ever have to find out, anyways. So a late night thought, or a mid day one; it didn't matter. Did it?   
We're friends, he reminded himself.  
Friends- John thought. Maybe that is a rare species to Sherlock. 

They started spending time by the fence before school, after school and during lunch.  
The school buzzed with the news, and it didn't die down right away: Sherlock Holmes, a friend? John Watson, the new kid, that friend?   
John didn't care about the crude jokes or comments anymore.   
He only cared about Sherlock. 

'I want to know you.' John said one day.   
They were by the fence. Like always. Sherlock was smoking, but today he seemed even moodier, watching the cigarette burn itself up instead of actually smoking it.   
'You do know me, John.' Sherlock point out, rolling his eyes. His voice was sharper than usual, abrasive. Most times, he was kinder to John. Today he seemed on edge.   
Ash fell from his cigarette, and he stared at it, frowning.   
'No. You know me,' John started, and hushed Sherlock.   
Sherlock had this funny little habit of knowing everything without being told. And also of interrupting. And John didn't want to be interrupted.   
'But I know little about you. If we're going to be best friends then-'  
John froze.   
Sherlock's head snapped up, his eyes racing over John as if to determine if he'd really just said that.  
Oh god, John thought. I'm scaring him away.  
'No, I mean- I just meant that-' John flushed, and looked anywhere but at Sherlock.  
He was terrified that he looked clingy now, and too attatched. He looked back up at Sherlock. The cigarette was burning itself away, dangerously close to his fingers, but Sherlock's eyes were locked on something John couldn't see; maybe just empty space.  
'Am I your... Best... Friend?' Sherlock spoke slowly, as if afraid to make a wrong assumption. He sounded like he was testing out a theory, and his voice shook the slightest bit. Fear? John didn't know.   
He took a shaky breath.   
'Well... yeah.' John's voice was barely above a whisper.  
Sherlock looked at him then, his eyes cold and calculating, as if he was looking through John instead of at him.  
Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a long time. He tossed his cigarette aside, not bothering to put it out. It was mostly burnt out anyways.   
'And you, you're mine.' Sherlock said finally.   
Mine, John thought. He liked the sound of that; liked the idea of Sherlock taking ownership of him.  
He liked it more than a best friend should.   
'I want to know you, now. Best friend.' John repeated.   
Sherlock sighed dramatically.   
'My parents aren't really in the, how you say, picture. They live far. They live... Away.' Sherlock gestured with one hand, while the other fumbled with a lighter. 'They send letters. Holidays and things.' He took a long, slow drag of the cigarette before continuing. 'They've only come down here one time.'  
'When was that?'  
'Well.' John saw hurt flash across his eyes for a second, and then it was gone just as abruptly. 'A while ago.'   
'Why?'   
'Because. There was... An event.' John could tell that he was being brushed off, so there was no use in asking again. 'And my brother, Mycroft. He, um, he takes care of the house. Sometimes. And it's just us living there.'   
'Your 21 year old brother?'  
'I've only got one, John.' He rolled his eyes, but it was playful this time. 'Yes.'   
'Do you like to do stuff?'  
'Of course I do.'   
'Well... What, then?'   
'Experiments. Research. The occasional piano piece.' Sherlock said dismissively.  
'Right, because those are ordinary casual teenage activities.'   
'I'm not an ordinary casual teenager, John.'  
'I know that.' John grinned. Sherlock pretended to be annoyed.   
'I like... Smoking.' Sherlock said.   
'That isn't a hobby.'   
'Well, you asked me to name what I like.' Sherlock huffed.  
'Okay, okay. Go on then.'   
'I like you. And you aren't a hobby.' Sherlock said flatly.   
'No, I'm not. I'm-'   
John stopped.   
Wait, what? What? Sherlock didn't like things. He especially did not like people. But still-   
I like you.   
The words rang in John's ears but didn't make sense yet.   
Sherlock had said: I like you.  
Not, 'I tolerate you.' Or 'I like being friends' but 'I like you.' That implied that Sherlock maybe, possibly, kind of, liked John back, didn't it?   
John couldn't breathe.   
'My friend.' Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, and for once, John was glad.  
The last thing he needed to do was obsess and overanalyze one simple phrase.  
'Yeah.' John felt ridiculous, but his heart was still racing.   
'I like rain.' Sherlock was still listing. 'I like biochemistry. I like experiments. I like to be right. Which, of course, there's rarely a shortage of around here.'  
'Don't be an arrogant dick, we talked about this.' John nudged him with his elbow, but kept his eyes down. He smiled. Sherlock nudged back, and then took a sudden interest in staring at his shoes.   
The silence felt awkward this time.

Three days passed.   
The tension was palpable between them, though they still sat together.   
Thursday, they even sat inside the cafeteria.  
'Oh my god, is that Sherlock?' The other students couldn't seem to stop staring. The two of them sat at their own table; not a single other student came to sit with them.   
John sat across from him, facing the wall, and Sherlock was scowling into a bowl of untouched soup.  
He seemed not to notice the people making comments about him.  
John tried not to notice, but they were loud and obvious and quite rude. They bothered him.   
'I can't smoke in here.' Sherlock said flatly. 'John, are you done indulging your ordinary teenage social pressure urges yet? Can we go outside?'   
A girl walked past and sneered at Sherlock.   
Sherlock caught her eye and, to her horror, winked. She made a disgusted sound and hurried past their table.   
John frowned at him.   
'It's freezing outside.' He protested.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his spoon to the table.  
'I need nicotine.' He ran a hand through his hair and John's heart skipped.  
Why does he do that? John wondered. It's distracting.  
His pale fingers ran through his dark hair perfectly, ruffling it just enough to be absolutely unnacceptable and ridiculously attractive.   
John swallowed and looked down at his food.   
Just then, someone approached their table.  
It was a boy, taller than John, with dark hair and dark eyes.   
He wasn't as pale as Sherlock, and he had broad shoulders and an ugly grin.   
'Sherlock.' He said Sherlock's name as if it were a contagious disease.   
The effect the boy had on Sherlock was startling and visible.  
His shoulders were stiff and he was even paler than before. His mouth was set in a hard line and John wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock's hand shaking.   
'Sebastian.'mSherlock said in a flat tone, that shook the slightest bit.   
'I see you're doing so much better.' Sebastian's words dripped with sarcasm.   
Sherlock didn't respond, but he clenched one hand in a fist so tightly his knuckles were white.   
'So, how's your mum? Dad?' Sebastian smirked. Sherlock took a shaky breath, and shifted in his seat. His foot bumped John's under the table, and he glanced up at John, his eyes wide and helpless.   
'Oh, right. Mummy and daddy don't come around, do they?' Sherlock looked down. 'Only when their junkie son gets lonely and shoots up too much-'   
'Enough.' Sherlock said sharply. Even John flinched at the word.  
Sebastian, however, kept the lazy grin on his face.   
He turned to John.   
'Keep a close eye on your boyfriend.' He drawled. 'Cause he has this silly habit of,' Sebastian looked over at Sherlock.'You know, making some unsavory decisions.'  
And with that, Sebastian turned and left.


	8. It's a Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best friends? He wondered. Do best friends know each other's tastes?

'Who is that guy?' John stumbled against the edge of the table as he fumbled to grab his books.   
Sherlock was already several strides ahead of him, not looking back.   
'No one.' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John hit the table one more time before making his way around it to catch up with Sherlock.  
Sherlock slowed the slightest bit, not enough to be very noticeable, but John still saw.   
Waiting for me? John thought, smiling to himself.   
'No one?' John slung his backpack over his shoulder. 'No one made you paler than a ghost.'   
'That's not a valid comparison,' Sherlock rolled his eyes as they walked. A faint smile was on the corner of his mouth, but he still appeared shaken up by the confrontation. 'How would you possibly know a ghost's skin tone-'   
Sherlock was cut off by someone bumping into his shoulder.  
Sherlock's head snapped to the right to glare at them, but when he saw who the person was, he shut his mouth.   
John stopped, frozen in his tracks.   
'Well.' The guy said. He towered over Sherlock, which was a feat in itself. Sherlock was nearly six feet tall. This boy's shoulders were twice as wide as Sherlock's. He leered at Sherlock, taking a step closer, and Sherlock backed away.   
He cracked his knuckles and suddenly John remembered, with painful detail, an afternoon in an empty hallway.   
Blood on Sherlock's face, on the boy's knuckles. Sherlock spitting and looking back up, bruises already blooming, asking 'Is that the best you can do?'   
'You.' John choked out. It was the boy that had beaten Sherlock up.   
The one who would have knocked him into inconsious, would have smeared Sherlock's blood onto his own knuckles, if John hadn't stopped him.  
John stepped closer. 'You disgusting-'   
'Here to defend pretty boy?' The boy moved to push Sherlock aside to face John. John moved faster, pressing his palm against Sherlock's chest to urge him away before the bigger boy could touch him.  
Shit, John thought. You've got your hand against his chest.   
He forced himself not to think about that fact; now wasn't an ideal time to drift into daydreams.   
Sherlock seemed stunned, but took a few steps back. John let his hand slide away.   
His fingers lingered just a second too long against the flat plane of Sherlock's chest.   
'Don't.' John shook his head at the taller boy. He took a shaky breath. The guy was so much bigger; John would lose in a fight.   
It wasn't smart to be doing this. But still, he didn't back down, no matter how sick he felt looking up at the boy.   
'You know what he does, don't you?' The boy's face twisted into a disgusted scowl. John's expression remained blank.   
Sherlock didn't move.   
'You don't?' The boy snorted. 'Look at this kid. No idea who he's been getting friendly with.'   
Two of the boys behind him laughed in response.   
John's stomach turned. Sherlock was like a block of ice next to him- unresponsive and disconnected.   
He had the ridiculous urge to reach for Sherlock's hand, to give it a squeeze and reassure him. He didn't, of course. That was just stupid. No matter how inviting Sherlock's long, pale fingers were.   
'Sherly here,' The boy drawled. 'Is a druggee.'   
Sherlock visibly winced, as if hearing the word aloud physically cut him.   
'Heard his fancy brother bailed him out of jail.' He continued. 'After the cops picked him up, in the city, on the streets.'   
Sherlock said nothing, but his face was blank now.   
John looked at him. Sherlock looked away.   
Before John could respond, the boy went on.   
'Heard he's on probation. Heard he got caught with a needle in his neck in the bathroom, how sick is that, all hyped up on-'   
John lunged for him.   
His anger and hatred bubbled up all at once and he was overwhelmed.   
Sherlock didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve hearing awful things about himself.  
Whether it was all true or not, John didn't know.   
His fingers clawed at the boy's coat, scrambling for a hold so that he could double back and hit him.   
John felt someone pull him away.   
'John!' Sherlock held two fistfuls of the front of his shirt. 'John. Are you here, with me?' Sherlock looked at him, as if John were lost in his own mind.   
Sherlock's eyes raced over him. 'Are you present?'   
Sherlock's hands shook the slightest bit, where he held John's shirt in his fists. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, and his hair fell into his face.  
John's chest tightened; Sherlock was so vulnerable, and it sent John's mind racing with thoughts of how good he looked.  
John pushed his thoughts away, flustered and still angry.   
His breathing came in harsh gasps.   
'I'm not high.' John shoved him off. 'Unlike someone.' John winced at his own comment. It had slipped out in his anger. He didn't realize he'd said it until he heard his own voice.   
Sherlock's mouth fell open. His hands dropped from John's coat as the shock settled into him.   
He took a step back from John, pressing his lips together in a hard line.  
He nodded once to himself, looking at John as if noting that he was no different than anyone else.  
John could almost see Sherlock's mind categorizing him under 'nothing special, nothing new. just like the others.'   
John's heart sank.   
'Sherlock, I- I didn't-' But he was gone. 

John didn't see him for the rest of the day. 

The next time he saw Sherlock, it was a Thursday morning.   
He was smoking, like usual.   
But today, he looked less put together than usual. His hair seemed more disarrayed, and he wore a dark blue t shirt instead of a button up.  
Not that John stared at him enough to notice his clothes, or anything.   
'Don't.' Sherlock said, looking past John, as if staring at the tree behind him was more amusing than John himself.  
John stepped closer, and Sherlock turned his focus on him.   
'Don't what?' John frowned.   
'Don't apologize, if that's what you intended.' Sherlock took a drag of his cigarrette. 'It's trivial to me.'   
John didn't respond for a moment.   
He considered apologizing. He really was sorry. He'd never meant to say anything to hurt Sherlock.   
'Okay.' John said instead.   
Sherlock looked him over for a moment. He seemed to be considering something.   
He held out his cigarette to John, a silent peace offering.   
John looked at it, a smoldering stick of smoke. Sherlock's pale, outstretched hand held it out to him, a request, a question.   
For a moment, he thought of taking it, just to feel his fingertips brush against Sherlock's, to watch the soft surprise spread across Sherlock's face. To feel the smoke fill his lungs, his mind.   
But that wasn't John, no. That was what Sherlock did.   
John shook his head.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
That was the way things were supposed to be.   
'There are things you do not know about me.' Sherlock said, staring ahead of him. John noticed that when it came to talking of feelings, Sherlock avoided all eye contact.   
'Okay.' John replied.   
'Things we will not discuss. At any time' Sherlock went on. 'Things that are... Messy. And... I don't care much for messy things.'   
John was silent.  
Messy things.   
It made his chest ache, to think of Sherlock involved in anything of the messy, terrible sort. To think of Sherlock in trouble, or pain. He wanted to ask what had happened, why everyone knew something about Sherlock that John didn't.   
But Sherlock was looking at him, eyes pleading him not to ask.   
So he didn't.   
Instead, he brought up math.   
Sherlock talked about the mediocracy of the school board.  
John listened. 

 

It was that Friday.   
The day everything changed? Maybe. But things had been shifting long before then.   
The exchanges between the two of them had grown more frequent, more friendly. If John didn't know better, he would have said flirtatious.   
That day they stood near the fence, like always.   
John saw a couple near the doors of the school.   
They started out talking, then kissed.   
A bit too enthusiastically.   
John rolled his eyes. In honesty, he was grateful for any kind of distraction from Sherlock and the looming situation; the overwhelming crush he'd developed.   
But also, John would have preferred a less... Disgusting distraction.   
'Never kissed like that.' John mumbled under his breath, without meaning to.   
'Never been kissed?' Sherlock snorted. 'Sure you haven't.' He rolled his eyes, sarcastic. His sarcasm was less effective than usual, less quirky and rude; he turned away and hid his face quickly.   
And was that- jealousy, in his voice? No, John thought. That's ridiculous.   
'Of course I've been kissed.' John said quickly. 'Lots of girls.' He snapped up to look at Sherlock instead of the couple.   
That was a mistake; Sherlock was looking up again, now John felt transfixed by him, unable to look away, unable to hide.   
Sherlock wasn't hiding then- John could see everything in his eyes, the pain, the memories haunting him, the fear. The vulnerability and intimacy of the moment- It was terrifying.   
Especially with the... Situation still hanging in the air between them.   
Sherlock changed.   
He looked interested for a second, and then recovered and just looked coolly tolerant of John, like he always did.   
'Oh, I see. Girls.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow and flicked ash away from his cigarette. 'Lots?'   
'A few.' John crossed his arms. His mind raced at the way Sherlock had said 'girls.' What had he meant by that? Did he think that John would rather kiss... Boys? Did he hope that?   
John wasn't sure anymore.   
'What's it to you?' He said aloud, hoping he didn't sound as nervous as he felt.   
'It's nothing at all.' Sherlock inhaled more smoke. 'Nothing.' Sherlock repeated. John wanted to ask why Sherlock cared. He wanted to know what Sherlock thought of that. Was he angry? Confused? Was he.. Jealous?   
'I'm a good kisser, I'll have you know.' John said without thinking. He mentally kicked himself. He was being too obvious.   
Bragging about kissing? He wanted to kick himself. Sherlock was a genius, and even an idiot could've figured out John's feelings then.   
'Oh, will you have me know?' Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but John's heart still skipped a beat. 'Doubtful.' He took another drag.  
'I am.' John frowned. Now he was feeling more defensive than anything.   
His heart raced.   
'You, John?' Sherlock shook his head. 'No.' His tone was bitter now. He was shutting down, shuttinf John out again like he often did.  
But why?   
'Why wouldn't I be?' John knew it shouldn't have mattered, but he wanted Sherlock to think he was a good kisser. He wanted Sherlock to test an experiment to prove that it was true. He wanted Sherlock to lean over, take his face in his hands and-  
'Too nice. Too innocent.' Sherlock stated simply. John snapped himself out of his fantasy.   
Just then, Sherlock leaned forward and traced his finger over John's mouth. His finger was cold and soft, just the lightest brush against John's lips. John drew a shaking breath and Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his mouth. John didn't dare to move.   
He could still feel Sherlock touching him, even after his hand moved away.   
'Too good.' Sherlock breathed. He sounded far too breathless and looked far too good and- really, it wasn't fair.   
John's mind went blank and he struggled to make his mouth form intelligable words.   
'I am not.' John pouted, his heart racing from Sherlock's touch. His mouth jumbled up the words so that they were barely coherent.   
He'd touched his lips, for Christ's sake. How was John supposed to feel about that?   
Certainly not warm all over and shaky.   
'I'm sorry, but I can't see you being anything more than a chaste kiss, John.' Sherlock seemed to be more interested in staring at the sky than looking at John as he spoke. John was grateful; a blush was starting to creep its way up into his face.   
'You don't know that.' John looked down.   
Stop, he urged himself. You can't retreat once you go down this road, John.   
'Oh, but don't I?' Sherlock smirked the slightest bit.   
And damn, John thought. How I'd like to kiss that smirk right off your mouth.   
John frowned again. Sherlock didn't even realize how flirtatious he was being.   
'You don't.' We've never kissed, John thought. I'd certainly remember that. How would I forget it?   
Christ, if only.   
If only.   
Sherlock took two steps forward, so that if John moved, they'd be touching, chest to chest.   
John fought every urge to back away, and every urge to get even closer.   
'Prove it, then.' Sherlock's voice was almost a growl.   
Just then, standing over John, eyes bright and wicked, challenging; John was overwhelmed with desire.   
John shivered. Could he, really? Prove it?   
That would mean... Oh. Oh.   
The only way to prove to Sherlock how good of a kisser he was, would be to... Oh.  
John's heart beat quickened.   
Could he really do that?   
He'd never considered that this was actually happening.   
It felt like some kind of dream.   
He'd dreamt of it; yes, but now that the moment was here, John's stomach flipped.   
'How?' John asked stupidly. He already knew the answer. But some part of him needed to hear it.   
'Kiss me.' Sherlock said blankly. His face didn't show any humor, any emotion. He was serious.   
Even the faint smirk was gone.   
'If you're such an outstanding kisser, then kiss me, John Watson.' His voice betrayed no emotion still.   
His eyes were hungry as they drank John in.   
'I... I'm not gay.' John stuttered. He couldn't even think; he could feel Sherlock breathing and see the specks of green in his eyes and-Christ- Sherlock was telling him to kiss him. What was John supposed to do: act calm?   
Sherlock laughed sharply.  
'I didn't say you were gay, John.' His voice was flat.   
He stepped away, leaning on the fence again.   
John was both grateful and disappointed.   
Each second that passed, the opportunity to take what he really wanted was slipping away.   
He could breathe now, though.   
'But you asked me to, to kiss you. You're a boy.' John felt stupid, his protests weak.   
There was no good reason why he shouldn't do it.   
'Yes.' Sherlock sighed impatiently.   
'And I'm a boy.' John said slowly. His mind was still reeling.   
Sherlock. Kiss.   
'Thank you for stating the obvious, John.' Sherlock frowned. 'And?' Sherlock looked down at his shoe, absentmindedly kicking at a rock.   
'And I can't kiss you.' John said flatly.   
Stupid, he told himself. You had the opportunity- his mouth inches away, and now you're overanalyzing?   
John Watson, you fool.   
'You're fully capable.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes darting briefly to John's mouth, biting his lip once.   
He averted his gaze from John.   
'But I'm not gay.' John insisted. He felt stupid again; that wasn't what he wanted to say. But he didn't have a better argument, and the situation was getting worse.   
If he said what he really wanted to, he'd made it even more difficult.   
'You don't have to be gay! I never asked you to be!' Sherlock huffed. He stared at his cigarette.  
He looked childish then, pouting, frowning.   
'I didn't even ask you to kiss me, John. I suggested it. For... Research.' He flicked ash to the ground, and his face was a mask again, the way he looked when John knew he was pretending not to care.   
'Well, I-' John started.   
'Don't.' Sherlock put his hand up to silence John. 'Just, don't. I've heard it before, the first time. You aren't gay, you're a boy, I'm a boy.' He rolled his eyes as if it were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.   
'Well, that's not-' John wished he could take it back. Being a boy had nothing to do with it. It was that he wanted to kiss Sherlock, but not like this. Not simply to prove a point.   
'What is it then?'  
'Fine.' John sighed. There was no use trying to explain. And besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock was actually about to kiss him.  
He was only trying to be clever.  
Right? John thought. That's all this is. Research. He said it himself.   
A slight brush of mouths. For research.   
'Fine, what?'  
'Fine, I'll kiss you.' John's voice shook. He didn't really believe that either of them would kiss the other, but he still imagined it with shocking clarity.   
Would Sherlock's lips be as cold as his eyes?   
This conversation alone was enough. It was enough to make John's heart weak from beating too fast, enough to make him shake, enough to make him feel feverish.   
'What?' Sherlock's voice was sharp. He looked almost afraid, for the smallest second. As if he'd never really expected John to agree.   
'I said, I'll kiss you.' John straightened up, trying his best to look directly at Sherlock. 'It's just a kiss. Doesn't mean anything.' John lied.   
But oh, John thought. It means everything.   
Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, as if changing his mind about what he'd been about to say.   
The air grew thick with tension and neither of them moved for a moment, uncertain of what was coming next.   
'Can... Can I?' John took a tentative step forward, his voice soft.   
He felt like he was outside of his body, watching himself do this.   
Stop, he pleaded with his out-of-body self. Don't do anything stupid.   
Don't do anything you can't undo.   
Sherlock looked surprised for a second, then nodded.   
And oh, John had never wanted anything more than he wanted Sherlock right then.   
'I'm going to kiss you now.' John said slowly, but he didn't move. 'Since you... Asked.' John added. He was hesitant; what if Sherlock laughed in his face? What if he'd only been kidding?   
But Sherlock didn't laugh. Instead, he remained perfectly still.   
John rested a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock didn't move.  
He'd never done this before. He'd never wanted to.  
But now he did. And, oh god, this was happening.   
He could feel Sherlock's breathing quicken.  
'I never asked you.' Sherlock said suddenly, his eyelids fluttering, his eyes unfocused.   
'Oh. Oh, I'm s-' John started to move away, feeling stupid. Of course. John had entirely misinterpreted Sherlock's words. Now he was the idiot.   
Sherlock wasn't moving away, though. He'd leaned in even closer.Then, Sherlock spoke again, in a hoarse whisper.   
'I dared you.' Sherlock breathed against John's ear, and something in John snapped. He couldn't help himself, and lost all ability to reason in his mind.   
He simply acted.   
John stepped forward again and grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders, kissing him hard before he could convince himself to do otherwise.   
Sherlock's lips against his own were softer than he'd imagined, and warmer. He'd envisioned cold kisses. But this was so much better.   
Sherlock made a strangled sound of surprise, and he stumbled back, his back against the fence.   
Their mouths parted for a second, then John was on him again, tangling both hands in Sherlock's dark hair, so that he couldn't pull away.   
Sherlock gripped the fence behind him with one hand, the other still holding the cigarette.   
He didn't react, besides attempting to reciprocate the kiss; leaning forward towards John.   
The shock faded, and then Sherlock kissed him back, moving his hand from the fence to John's shoulder, spreading out his fingers.  
The kiss was messy, frantic, mouths seeking out each other, hands pulling each other closer.   
John tried not to think about what was happening.  
Best friends? He wondered. Do best friends know each other's tastes?   
Sherlock tasted bitter, like strong coffee. John faintly noted that it was more than likely the taste of the cigarette in his hand. But it was sweet enough that John wanted more, wanted to taste it again and again.   
The cigarette hit the gravel behind John, forgotten, as Sherlock twisted his fingers in John's hair, deepening the kiss.   
Even though John knew it was supposed to be wrong, every inch of his skin was screaming yes.   
Yes, he wanted this. He wanted Sherlock.   
And then, just like that, Sherlock broke away.   
His eyes were wide, his hair messy. His shoulders heaved as he caught his breath.   
John fell breathless again. He'd never seen anything as perfect as Sherlock.   
Then, a second later,Sherlock was composed again, except for his slightly heavier breathing.   
John, on the other hand, was a wreck. He was shaking all over from shock, his skin was on fire.   
Sherlock lounged against the fence again, as if John hadn't just pushed him up against it.   
'You were right.' Sherlock said casually as he lit a new cigarette. He was smirking just slightly, and his messy hair was the only proof that John wasn't delusional.  
He couldn't force his mouth to form words; all he could think about was Sherlock's mouth on his own.   
'I... Um...' John said stupidly. He was openly staring at Sherlock now. Not that it mattered; John supposed that when you've kissed a person like that, you've gained full permission to stare at them. He looked for some kind of response- any kind at all. But Sherlock appeared entirely unaffected by the kiss.   
'What?' John squeaked.  
'I said, you were right.' Sherlock blew smoke and frowned at it. He acted perfectly fine, as if he hadn't just let his best friend's tongue into his mouth seconds ago.   
'You aren't a bad kisser.'   
John lost all ability to comprehend, to speak.   
He simply struggled to catch his breath, panting, heaving.   
'I...'   
'Please, John.' Sherlock snapped. He tossed his cigarette aside, though it was brand new. He took a step closer to John, his eyes blazing. 'Don't tell me you honestly expect me to have an eloquent speech planned.' He sighed. 'It's a kiss, John. Handle yourself.'   
Just then, the bell rang for their final class.   
Before John could respond, Sherlock brushed him aside and walked back into the school.  
He had to get to class, of course, John realized.   
It wasn't until later that John realized that Sherlock didn't even have a class to go back inside to.


	9. But You're Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has a few firsts of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter is a bit of a mess. I myself have been a mess, but I wanted to continue the story since it's been so long.

John left school.  
He really couldn't afford to miss any more class, but at the same time, he couldn't handle sitting in class.  
Not now.   
His mouth was still burning, and he still couldn't catch his breath, no matter how much air filled his lungs.   
His mind was in overdrive.   
Sherlock.  
The kiss.   
He reanalyzed every moment; every touch, every movement.   
Get ahold of yourself, John, he thought as he walked home. It was only once. The first and last time.   
The air was cold, but John was hot all over. He couldn't stop replaying it in his mind; the hands desperately grabbing, Sherlock's mouth against his.  
The taste of cigarettes lingered on his lips.   
The feeling of fingers slipping just under his shirt.   
He figured some homework might calm his nerves, but he was wrong.   
His hands shook when he tried to write, and he could barely focus on the words in his textbook.   
And he didn't even have Sherlock's phone number; it wasn't as if he could ask Sherlock if he was feeling just as shaken up.   
Sherlock was probably fine, John thought. It was nothing more than an experiment, a test, to him.   
John tossed and turned in his bed thinking of Sherlock.  
Morning came too soon.

Maybe I can just be sick for the day, he told himself.  
He didn't want to face Sherlock. He wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to face him; how did a person look at their best friend after making out with them against a fence?   
John sure as hell didn't know.   
He washed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection.  
Average.  
Ordinary.  
No matter how great the kiss had been, John Watson was still simply John Watson.   
Plain, boring, a bit stupid, maybe.   
There was no way Sherlock was interested in him. 

To John's surprise, Sherlock didn't skip school.  
He was by the fence as usual in the morning.   
John saw his familiar black coat-clad figure and thought about turning around and leaving.  
But he knew Sherlock had seen him, and John didn't want to abandon him.  
They were each other's only friends, for one.  
And for two, John's heart raced at the thought of being near Sherlock and the fence again. His mind teased him with thoughts of repeating yesterday's dare.   
'John.' Sherlock rarely said hello, and it was something John had grown used to.   
Sherlock barely glanced up from the thin air he'd been staring at.   
John coughed awkwardly and shifted his weight on his feet.   
'Sherlock.' He said. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in response, but said nothing.   
He wasn't smoking this time, which confused John even further. He seemed to be focused on nothing, his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and his back against the fence.   
The fence, John's mind teased. The kiss.   
John swallowed.   
'So.'   
Sherlock sighed.   
'John, are we really going to carry this out?' When John didn't respond, Sherlock continued, sounding exasperated. 'This whole, domestic best friend bit? It's dull. It's very mundane, in my opinion. It was a single kiss, John. People kiss all the time. I presume-' Sherlock gave him a strange look, and when John met his eyes, Sherlock's face started to flush red just barely. 'I know you've kissed plenty.' Sherlock finished in a rush, looking down again.   
John bit his lip.   
This was exactly the awkward situation he had been afraid of.   
He cared about Sherlock- more than friends, yes- but he wasn't going to jeopardize that friendship for his own feelings.   
And still, despite his efforts, that was happening.   
Sherlock was reacting differently than he'd expected, though; Sherlock seemed almost embarrassed. Which didn't make sense, unless Sherlock had actually liked the kiss.   
Which just wasn't... True, John thought.   
'Yes.' John said. 'I've had a few kisses.' He considered his next words carefully. 'I assume you have, too.'   
Sherlock didn't look up.   
John waited a moment, but still, no response.   
'Sherlock?'   
'I heard you.' Sherlock replied icily.   
He looked up, and his expression was blank, but his cheeks were tinged pink. John didn't read into it too much; he figured it had to be from the cold.   
There was no way Sherlock Holmes was blushing.   
'No.' Sherlock said.   
'No, you didn't hear me?' John frowned. He took a step towards Sherlock, who stiffened and looked as if he would have backed away if he could.   
'No, I haven't had various kisses.' Sherlock looked away again. 'I haven't had... Any.' His voice was hesitant for the first time.   
'Wait, you mean-' John cut off, his mouth falling open.  
If Sherlock had never been kissed, that meant that the kiss from yesterday was his first. Ever.   
John was his first kiss.   
'Oh, my god.' John breathed. 'Oh my god, Sherlock.'   
Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
'Please don't berate me about your religion, John, now is not-'   
'Sherlock!' John's voice rose. 'Why didn't you say something?'  
'Relating to?' Sherlock leaned back against the fence. He always had the appearance of being perfectly comfortable, even lounging against a chain link fence.   
'Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that I'm your first kiss ever.' John sputtered.   
'Ah. Yes, that.' Sherlock pressed his palms together, resting his fingers under his chin. 'Insignificant.'   
'Not really, Sherlock.'   
Sherlock sighed.   
'John, listen to me.'   
'I'm listening.' John responded instantly. Always, he thought.   
'Whatever this means to you, it does not equal the same thing to me. You see, whereas you'd consider it to be an ordeal, a milestone, possible- I don't. And to put it simply, I don't care.'   
'So, your best friend is your first kiss and you don't care?' John raised his eyebrows.  
Internally, he was screaming.  
First kiss. Me. Sherlock's first kiss.   
'Yes, that's correct.' Sherlock said, his voice flat. 'John, please.' He rolled his eyes. He shoved his hands back in his pockets.   
'It's just- okay. Okay.'   
'Okay.' Sherlock replied.   
They stood there for a long moment before John spoke.  
'But wouldn't you want it to be someone better?'   
'What?' Sherlock was fishing through his pocket for something; cigarettes, almost certainly.   
'The kiss. Your kiss. The first one. Wouldn't you at least want it to be someone interesting?'   
'Oh, John.' The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. 'You are interesting.'   
John barely even heard the words before his own reply came tumbling out of his mouth.   
'I'm not extraordinary. I'm not even smart. I'm simply boring, stupid John Watson.' John blurted.   
He hadn't meant to say it; but now that he had, he didn't have any excuse. Every word of it was true.   
'Simply John Watson?' Sherlock snorted. 'There's not a simple thing about you.' He stopped searching his pocket.  
John was silent.  
Breathe, he told himself. But as Sherlock went on, his lungs stopped functioning and he held is breath.   
'John Watson, you are not average. You interest me. You shock me. How is it that you do that? I don't know. But you do.'   
Sherlock's voice wasn't sarcastic or mocking. He sounded genuinely sincere, and looked awkward after he finished, as if he'd just admitted something terribly strange.   
John hung on every word.   
Interest me, he thought. Shock me.   
I interest Sherlock? John's mind reeled.   
'I... Interest you?' John's words came out jumbled, but Sherlock didn't roll his eyes.   
'Yes.' He met John's gaze with an even expression; unreadable.   
'Sherlock, I...'   
John didn't know what to say. He thought that now was a good time to admit his feelings.  
Then again, his feelings were better left unsaid entirely.   
Sherlock looked away.   
'Go to class, John.'   
'But the bell hasn't even-'   
John was interrupted by the bell ringing.   
He didn't even get a chance to question how Sherlock knew, because Sherlock was walking ahead of him.   
'Sherlock!'  
'John.' Sherlock replied, mocking, as if it pained him to have to talk to John again.   
'I want to tell you something.'   
'Then tell it.' Sherlock shrugged.   
'Oh, I...'   
'Hey, John!' Another voice called, and John turned.  
Beside him, Sherlock turned pale.  
'Sebastian.' He murmured.   
Sebastian sauntered up to John, throwing his arm around John's shoulders as if they were old friends.   
'So, I'm having a kind of, get together later on. You'll be there.'   
John shoved his arm away.   
'Excuse me?'  
Sebastian rolled his eyes.   
'We're not... I don't know you.' John stuttered.  
'Not yet.' Sebastian's eyes were burning into Sherlock, over John's shoulder.   
Sherlock shrank back.   
'Oh, not yet, John. But you will know me, very soon I think.'   
John turned to look at Sherlock, who had just moved to start walking away.   
'You may be Sherlock's little plaything for now, John. But just wait and see what's in store for you.' Sebastian spoke loud enough that Sherlock could hear.  
John was certain that his words were an empty threat.  
Yet his stomach flipped when Sebastian grinned. 

 

John had never been this close with another person before.  
Or rather, wished he was close with one.  
He and Sherlock weren't exactly the secret swapping type.  
John still didn't even know his middle name.   
Sherlock knew almost everything without having to ask.  
It wasn't an ideal friendship in any way.  
Yet it was the best John had ever had.   
Maybe it was the way Sherlock held a cigarette between his fingers. Maybe it was the way he stared off into space when he spoke. Maybe it was the way his eyes lit up when he had an idea, or the way his collarbone was exposed when he took off his coat.  
John wasn't sure what it was, but he couldn't stop thinking of Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock avoided John for the rest of the day.  
John wasn't surprised.

 

John stayed late after school.   
He didn't need the math tutoring, and he didn't care about it, either. But it was better than home, at any rate.   
It was an hour after the final bell when he finally left.   
Just outside the library, a familiar black sillhouette caught his eye.   
'Sherlock?'  
Sherlock didn't turn.  
John ran to catch up with him.  
'John Watson.' Sherlock said sharply, looking at John as if he were stuck to the bottom of his shoe. 'How nice of you to say hello.' He spoke as if they were strangers. And not friendly ones, at that.  
'You've been avoiding me.'   
Sherlock looked away, kept walking.   
John kept up.  
'I don't avoid. It's tedious.'   
'Well, you were ignoring me.'   
'No, rather I was simply not speaking to you.' Sherlock pronounced each word clearly, to show his annoyance. 'What do you want, John?'   
'We're friends. Best friends.'   
'Don't think for one second that a word you say makes a difference to me.' Sherlock snapped.   
'Sherlock, I-'   
'Please, John.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Don't pull this again. Your sentiment bores me, your intellect is pathetic, and your face is all too familiar a sight to me.' Sherlock's words were laced with anger and hurt, but sounded forced, as if even he didn't believe a word.  
They stopped just in front of the main doors of the school.   
'I bore you?' John spoke barely above a whisper.   
Never enough for the great Sherlock Holmes, John reminded himself. You were never going to be enough.   
Sherlock was silent.   
'I bore you?' John repeated, louder. No reply.   
'Move, John.' Sherlock finally said.   
John blocked the doorway with his arm.   
'Not until you answer me truthfully. Do I bore you, Sherlock?'   
Sherlock looked at him then, and John's breath hitched.   
Sherlock's eyes were bright with pain, his lips pressed together, his jaw set. He was angry. Angry at John? No. Angry at himself?   
'This.' Sherlock took a deep breath. 'This is infantile.'  
He pushed past John and opened the door. He didn't even glance back at he walked away.   
John waited a moment, stunned.  
Was his refusal to answer because his answer is yes? Was his answer no?   
John slowly pushed open the door and stepped out.   
The afternoon sun was bright, and it disoriented John for a moment.   
He stepped forward and lost his footing on the first stair.   
John stumbled off the step, his foot slipping and his arms bracing for the fall.  
But it never came; he'd been grabbed by someone.   
That someone held his forearms to hold up his weight, and John somehow had turned so that he was now facing the person.  
He was too close to the person, though, and John's mind barely had a chance to think, 'Sherlock' before their mouths hit each other. Had it been anyone else, John would've pulled away and apologized. Had it been anyone else, it would've become a terribly awkward moment and then they would have parted ways.   
But this was Sherlock: he had the tendency to cause John's mind to go entirely blank.   
John was still stumbling against Sherlock, their chests pressing together, and Sherlock held John up by his arms and parted his mouth in surprise.   
John kissed him then; not just an accidental bump of lips, but a real kiss, like the one they'd shared before, crushing their mouths together hard enough to bruise.   
John knew he shouldn't. Everything was falling into place and he felt helpless to stop it.   
Sherlock was still stumbling backwards, trying to keep both of them from falling, his eyes wide in surprise.   
This wasn't the first time they'd ever kissed , but it felt more real this time. Every nerve in John's body was on fire as he managed to slip his shaking hands up to Sherlock's hair. He held Sherlock in place and just kissed him, hard, breathless, but John didn't want to pull away. He didn't want Sherlock to pull away either.  
It was wrong. John knew that; they were best friends. This would ruin everything.   
Yet John couldn't stop.   
He backed Sherlock into the school's brick wall, opposite from the stairs.   
Sherlock's back hit the wall then, and the instant that they were steady against it, Sherlock's hands slid around his waist to his back, and gripped John tight against him. Sherlock melted into the kiss, biting John's lip once. Sherlock pulled back to take a deep, shaking breath. He looked bewildered, as if he had something to say. But he didn't speak, he just reached up with shaking fingers to touch his own lips. Then, he dropped the hand.   
He kissed John back even harder, and John felt dizzy wondering vaguely if Sherlock had wanted this as badly and for as long as John had.   
It was happening, and too fast for John's mind to fully comprehend as Sherlock's fingers dug into the fabric of his jumper.   
'John.' Sherlock's voice was utterly wrecked, hoarse and raw with emotion, and it made John light headed. That single syllable was the most perfect sound he'd ever heard.   
John kissed him again, but Sherlock was pulling away, taking John's face in his hands and struggling to breathe.  
John wanted to kiss him again. He didn't want to talk; he didn't want to hear Sherlock analyze this. John already knew what he wanted. Words were messy, they'd just ruin it.   
'John.' Dread crept into Sherlock's voice then, and when John looked at him, he looked absolutely shocked.  
'Sherlock?' John's voice was small, barely a breathy whisper. Fear was creeping into him then; he realized the full extent of what had just happened.   
'I-oh god, Sherlock-' John's breath hitched. 'I'm sorry, I'm so-I'm sorry, Sherlock.'   
'Don't.' Sherlock's eyes were closed now. 'John, stop.'   
'Sherlock?'   
I've ruined this, John realized with dawning horror. I ruined it.   
'I can't hear this. Please. Don't, John.'   
Sherlock stepped back and dropped his hands.  
'We'll just... We can...' Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. 'Delete this. Forget about this.'   
Sherlock stepped back, worry flashing across his features as if he was afraid of John.  
'This is insignificant.' Sherlock gestured to the empty space between them.  
'Sherlock-'  
Would now be the time to tell him about my huge crush? John wondered. But Sherlock had started pacing, one step to the left, then back. And suddenly John couldn't speak at all.  
'I'll...' Sherlock shook his head. 'I'll see you tomorrow, John.'   
Without another word, he walked past John, careful not to brush his shoulder.   
John didn't move for a while.  
He was halfway home before he realized that Sherlock never said 'See you tomorrow.' He never even said a goodbye like normal friends. He never wished John a good night. Not once.   
Until now.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated~ 
> 
> Title is borrowed from Brand New's 'Degausser', as are all chapter titles. If you haven't heard it, go listen to it right now. (And then come talk to me about how perfect it is)


End file.
